


Caera Talks About Her Past

by knitmeapony



Series: Eternal Harvest [1]
Category: Changeling: the Dreaming
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 04:45:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3882799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knitmeapony/pseuds/knitmeapony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Created for Eternal Harvest, and a companion piece to Bly Talks About Her Past</p><p>In this game, Bly was created first.  At a certain point, we all realized we were trapped in a Matrix-like scenario, and not who we believed we were.  Bly was the dream of Caera, her ideal, the woman she wished she could be.</p><p>Each story is a companion to one for the other character -- two stories about mothers, about fathers, about David and Tiffany and Vic, and about the Baron(ess) who is truly cruel, and of course about William.  There is a link to the companion piece at the end of each chapter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. About My Dad

Remembering things from before is hard.  Things are still all mixed up in my head, but I'm going to do the best I can because he was a person and he deserves that.

* * *

 

My name is Caera Blythe Fredricks. My birthday is November 26 which makes me Sagittarius-- an archer, ruled by Saturn, the god of war.  That explains so much.

Most people think that I was born in 2000, but that isn't so.  I was born in 1959, and I was lost for a long, long time.

I miss a lot of things from back then, but most of all I miss my Dad.

We never talked about Mom when I was a kid, it was just me and Dad living in Boston and that was okay.  I heard people whisper sometimes about my mom, and that she was dead, and what a brave man my Dad was for bringing me up alone.  I never thought he was brave for that, really.  He kind of wasn't very good at it.  He was brave in a lot of other ways, though.

He was brave because he taught at the high school, where all the big and scary kids went.  He never let them get to him though, and he never got angry at them.  If people got into trouble in his class, he'd sit them down and talk to them.  They all loved him very much, and they loved me too.  They were scary, but they were like brothers and sisters sometimes.  

Dad was brave because sometimes he would let some of the kids sleep at our place on the couch, and when their parents came by, loud and angry, he would stand there and never get angry back.  He would talk, quietly, until they talked quieter too, and they'd sit down and have coffee and he would make everything okay.

Dad wasn't very good at keeping track of me, but that was okay because I was very good at keeping track of myself.   He taught me how to read and cook and use a map, and we had a little house on the edge of town, and I had a bike and a swingset and I went to a nice school with nice kids in it.

I got lost though, one day.  I was following this feeling I didn't understand, something rich and roaring and flowing like the tide in my gut.  I followed it, that siren's song, and I went out to the ocean.  It was a very long ride, and it was scary and it got dark after a while, but I knew I had to go there.  I sat there with my bike beside me on the sand, and the tide started coming in, and I knew I was too tired to go home.

So I slept there until the water crept up on me, until the waves lapped up over my face and I coughed and struggled in the sand and finally pulled myself up and out.  It was like the sea washed away something in my eyes, and when I blinked them, with every sting I was seeing something new.

I went down to the ocean because it was calling to me, and when I listened it told me things.  It told me I'd lived before, and who I was.  It told me I was important, and beautiful and perfect, just like my Dad did.  It told me what I had to do, and what was coming, though I didn't understand it at the time.

I took a stone from the shore and when I biked home I found that Dad had been up all night, worrying about me and afraid I was gone.  When I got there he hugged me so, so tight and talked to me, low and quiet, about how I shouldn't make him so afraid, how I shouldn't ever leave him.

I showed him the stone and together we made it into a necklace. He told me my mother loved the sea, and some day I would probably understand  what it all meant.  

I didn't tell him that I already did, and that I was beginning to remember.

That's when the trouble started, and when I grew afraid of him.  But to understand that, I'd have to tell you about my mother.  And I will, I promise.  Just not today.


	2. About my sweet William

I still think it's so amazing that we are being born, still.  Don't you?

I don’t mean the ones who are reborn, like how I have been a dozen people before now and now I am me.  I don't mean the way that fae are, that we are younger than humans but so much older than them too.  I just mean that every now and then, when the mortals do something wonderful, someone is born new for the first time.  

This is the story of my first time around.

Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived in a castle.  And she was happy.  

It was easy to be happy, in those days.  She had her tasks, and she did them well.  Her name was Blythe and it suited her, all sunshine and sweet temper.  Her father was a shoemaker, which meant something in those days, and her mother was something else all together, a secret that needed keeping

And she was new, and she was young. She was ten when she started working in the castle.  Still a girl, with hair in two braids and skirts up to her knee in summer.  She cooked and she cleaned and she carried the wine and she never, ever complained.

She met everyone who lived there, and she loved every single one of them like family.  The lord of the castle was kind to her, and he protected his own.  The lady was beautiful and had an easy laugh, and she taught Blythe how to stitch the most delicate embroideries, how to play the flute and sing.  The knights were brave men and true, and in the stables, there was a young squire by the name of William.  

William was sweet-tempered and kind. He was a noble -- the heir to the throne though he was not the son of the Lord -- and she was not, but all the same they became the dearest of friends.  He would take her out on little adventures, and guard her while she picked mushrooms and berries in the forest.  And she would hide the best pies and the finest cut of meat on his plate when she was serving.

No one thought better of it, because they were children.  And they lived so easily.

And then they grew older, their friendship was something profound.  They were siblings and comrades in arms; they were one soul in two bodies, speaking without words, moving perfectly with one another.  They were twins, for all that he grew tall and fair and she grew round and dark.  

They were in love, though they never  _fell_  in love.  It was the kind of love that came like breathing. It was the kind of love that meant we couldn’t — you couldn’t — spend a day without seeing each other.  It was courtly and aching; light touches and flowers given, favors at the tournament and forehead kisses when no one was looking.  Every conversation was endless and ended too soon. It was like a compass, feeling the magnetic pull, the gravity of the other.

They were electric, before electricity.  They were lightning.  You could feel the buzz and hum at a distance.  Everyone knew that they were something special.

The people were kind, and everyone whispered that perhaps one day they would be married, though no one believed it. It was something beyond and better than that.

The world was not so kind, however.  The dreaming was suffering.  And these children, they were fae.  They heard stories about people leaving, about other royals walking away from the broken world.

But she thought -- she told him -- that her masters were good, and kind, and would never do such things to anyone.  That she knew that William was.

He had promised her the universe and the stars and the sun, that he would always take care of her.  The Lord and the Lady, they decided that they would not retreat, that they would not abandon those who cared for them and who they cared for.

In a just world, everyone would have lived.  There would have been a magic answer, a way to protect themselves and keep the gates of Arcadia open.  Even once upon a time, even that long ago, even in the world where everything was buzzing and love and sunlight, it wasn't a just world.

William was William ap Scathach, and their lord was the same.  They decided to stay, to struggle through this ugly time, to be with everyone, even the commoners, as a family.

So she lived out her life with them, even when William took sick and came out of it too weak to hold a sword.  Even when the lord forgot himself and William had to step up and do what he could.  They were together while the changelings huddled around dimming balefires, arm in arm as they grew into Wildlings and took care of the household left behind, even as they drifted away one by one, lost to death or forgetting.

She was by his side through to the very end when she could see him slipping away from her, drifting to the world of the mortals.  And when he finally forgot himself, the profoundness of that bond dropped away.

And they were married in the end, and lived lives until their hair was grey.  She gave him a son and two daughters, though they never found their way to faerie.  

They spent their days and nights together, loving and in love, and finally she was at his bedside when a fever took the last remnant of him away.  His body died, and she never saw him again.

And she was filled with grief, great and terrible sorrow that matched every day of her joy.  His loss was as profound as their friendship had ever been.  And she cried that she would never have another, that she would never grow old with anyone else.  That he would be the last companion she would follow into death.

And the dreaming listened, and it made it so.

It was her first time around, and it was his last, she thinks.  Because never again did she grow old with anyone.

Never again did I grow up.

I was born into a destiny of friendship and love, of summertime and sunrise. I remember that there is another part of the day that is harder, of marriage and care, of the autumn and the sunset.  

And if I knew then what I know now, I would never ever give up the sunset, because without it the sunrise can't happen again.  In the end, even the kindest of us suffer at the hands of the world, but that doesn't mean that we shouldn't work hard or enjoy the sun while it's up.

I wish I had never made that oath, because century after century I sit in childhood, the most frightening time of life.  And I am alone, and small, and frail.  I am a flower grown deep in a cave, with no sun and no color. I can not have him back, and I can not grow past him.

I hope I see William again some day.  I must, or I will never have half of myself.  One soul in two bodies, we were.  And I have sworn myself to never be whole.


	3. What happened in Boston: the Baron of Mission Hill

This is the story of how I got into trouble, and where I've been for thirty years.  I'm sorry that I'm not as nice as I should be.  I promise I tried very hard.

After I became a fairy, I started to read more than ever.  I'd always liked the books my Dad gave me, but now I could understand more and more of them. You might have noticed that I have a pretty hyperlexic vocabulary for a girl my age.  (I did that on purpose.)  That's because of the books.  I speak all sorts of languages and I know all kinds of things because I read them.

Books are wonderful, funny things.  They're doorways to the past.  Sometimes it just lets you see what other people saw, to learn new things.  Sometimes it's like looking back and back in your mind, and they tickle a little something and make you remember.

I remembered a lot of things.  

I remembered when Cyrus the Great said that people deserved their homes, and to be paid for what they did so they can have food.

I remember when a nice man said that it wasn't nice to treat people badly because of how they looked or talked or where they'd grown up or even who they worshiped.

I remembered 622, when another man decided to say that it'd be nice to stop fighting and to treat people better.

I remembered 1215, when the nobles stopped letting the king make all the rules, when the king had to listen to the nobles.

I remembered 1789, when people stood up to say that food and doctors and being warm and speaking your mind were all important, and that everyone should get all of them.  And they did it in France and America and England all at once.

I remembered writing some of those words, although they didn't always listen to me.  I was such a tiny thing, even then, and I had to leave secret notes and things for my big brother.  And he'd talk to me, and he'd speak my mind for me, and it was all so thrilling.

I remember wondering why one world got such a revolution and nobody else did.  It didn't matter so much for us anymore -- the only ones who had stayed were Scathatch, and they didn't care to lord it all over us, although truth be told they were the better leaders in the end.

And then they all came back. 

It was terrible. We lived at the Barony of Mission Hill.  It was a library with a hearth in the stockroom out back, and I loved the books so. (I came there when I ran away from home, but that's part of the story of my mother.  I'll tell you that later, I promise i will.)

When the Baron of Mission Hill returned, he worked with us at first.  He let us come by whenever we liked, he let the ones who lived there stay -- though they had to take oaths to him, and I don't think any of us were ready for the kind of oaths he expected.  He was a Liam, and you would think that the Oathbreakers would not be so exacting in their expectations, but you'd be wrong.

We were patient too, and we worked with him.  But finally in time we found that there was no more that we could do, and what he asked of us was too much.  And other places, other commoners were rising up and fighting back.  And so we did, too.

I didn't have much to give -- I was aging slowly even then, and I spent so much time in the freehold since I'd left my father behind.  So I was a child, and resourcesless and friendless.  But I did what I could, and they all trusted me so much because I was a childling.  Even the Baron would laugh at me more than fear me because I was so small.

But eventually I did something.  I did a thing that was big and it was scary, and it had meaning.  

I wrote a book.  I  _made_  a book.  I took my heart and my soul (and the things my mother gave me) and every bit of skill in my boggan fingers, I and I wrote what I knew.  I wrote about hard work and dedication and freedom.  I wrote about kindness and mercy and their limits.  I wrote about revolution.

The Baron laughed at me, when he heard what I was doing.  That chapter after chapter, I was putting it out to the public.

But something was different about my words when they were written down.  They weren't so small and they weren't so soft.  They were fire to tinder.  People read my book and rallied around it.  

And then the Baron wasn't laughing anymore.

He took away my tools, my pen and paper, my tongue in a way.  He tried to silence me and he tried to stop me.  He locked me up -- with no parents to protect me, all they could do was shout at his gates and make demands.  But even then I found ways, tore off bits of my dress and wrote in my own blood. Mootched the letters outside the walls, or got friends to smuggle them out in their shoes.

Prison couldn't contain me.  He couldn't kill me.  So the Baron, at his wits end, finally punished me in the most painful way: he made me take oaths, made me join him.

He made me a squire, sent me off to watch the fighting where it was happening, real and big and scary and bloody.  I learned to heal there, and I patched up my knight as best as I could.  I knew what he was doing was wrong but when you spend so much time with someone, you get to like them.  He was a Fiona, and sometimes I liked to call him William because they looked the same.

The Baron thought enough blood would make me empty myself of words.  He thought I didn't understand, that I wrote my revolution through ignorance, but he was wrong.  

I saw what was happening, and I wouldn't be silent.  I shouted words into the wind, I snuck out apologia and eulogies and lists of demands in the hands of enemy combatants.  And so when my dear knight died, when I could not keep him alive any more, they made me a knight and I was ten and they put a sword in my hand.  My face was not famous, and so the commoners attacked on the field.  I had no choice; I fought for my life.

It was everything my father had warned me about, and I was terrible at it until I started learning magics.  I could be a monster, a big huge animal and I could fight as anything but myself.  Some fell under my tooth and claw, and some saw them fall.  I tried to continue on, to do good works even when I was forced to fight, but in time there was nothing I could do about my reputation.  They know that I was a vicious little thing, that the kitten had claws and she used them.

I had so rarely signed my tracts in the past, but now I could not use my name if I wanted to.  I started to sign them with 'Watchfire', a name that means so much to me. I will talk about that more some other time, but through my new name I had a voice, and he let me write and write and bolster the hopes of the commoners who fought against the sidhe.

The Baron wasn't fooled, though, and still he could not kill me.  There were a bare few who knew who I was, and if Watchfire died I would be a martyr.  So the Baron did all that he could do to ruin me. The Count died and the Baron was lifted up, and he gave me title for all my deeds.  Up and up and utterly ruined, a landless Baroness of Liam known to strike down her friends.

They celebrated me.  They had a huge party with tea and cakes and they let me drink wine.  They gave me a crown and they laughed at me.

And I cried at home that night.

But then Tiffany came, and everything was brighter.

She was a shadow, liquid and shifting, and she whispered in my ear.   _Come along to the trods, step from holding to holding, and some day you will find your home.  You have lands, and your mother was seventeenth of Drowned Mountain, but you must never, ever tell a soul.  Your father told you lies because he had to, because he couldn't speak of it either because he would forget._

_Take the charm, take out your stone and your shell, and come with me.  Take the oath, and become the eighteenth lady of Drowned Mountain.  We will go find it together._

_  
_So I did.  I went with Tiffany and we walked the trods, we followed the Path.  She did not know the way but we were never lost; I could find my way home though I'd never been there.

But it took us a very long time.  I almost never left the Dreaming, not from 1973 to 2000.  I was in bedlam much of that time, and only through the kindness of a few that I am not completely lost.  I was gone for years numbering three by three by three.  There were three quests I completed.  Three people I met. Three secrets I learned.  I remember none of them now, but Tiffany tells me it's so.

The madness comes back to me from time to time.  My memory is not what it once was.

They did not miss me in Boston.  They may think that I am dead.  Surely many of them  _are_  dead now. But now I have returned, and have hardly aged a year.  They would know my face, I think, if any of them are still alive.

I know what they would say about me, and it is terrible.  But some of them who knew me, who lived with me, I hope they'd say something else.   _She was a person.  She existed._

_She laughed.  She loved the people in her retinue.  She worked hard to make sure the place stayed neat.  She was a girl of the Dreaming, and a girl of dreams._

_She wasn’t happy, but she had happy times.  Often she was terrible. Great and ugly and miserable and terrible. Sometimes she fought against it.  Usually she gave up.  You could see it, when the sanity leaked out of her eyes, when she just let the oaths take over._

_Maybe she was meant to be this person.  Maybe she knew that it was the way it was meant to be.  It was an ugly, raw sore, and it got uglier and more raw the longer the war went on._

Sometimes, I think about debriding wounds when I think about the war.  Maybe everything had to be torn open so it’d heal right.  Maybe the bone's not set yet, maybe that's why everything is crooked.

Sometimes I wonder if I don’t understand enough about fate to understand it had to be, that all that suffering had meaning, that every bad thing I did had a reason, in the larger picture.

But I don't expect them -- the ones I hurt -- to understand.   They shouldn't forgive, and I don’t forget, and I still have dreams sometimes.  My dreams tie of Boston are forever the smell of burned skin, the sound of broken bones and the taste of copper.

I hope there's no hell.  For what I did, I know I will burn.

Please forgive me.


	4. Who is David?

I have two secrets, a small one and a great one, and this is the small one.

David is a troll, except when he's a sidhe.  They say he's Scathatch, or maybe he's Gwydion and he is rejecting his family.  Maybe he's Dougal, building something new.  Maybe he's Ailil, finding a new way to upset the applecart.  But more likely he really is a troll.  Just a beautiful, ordinary boy who turned into a glorious man.

David is strong and brave and proud.  David saved people during the war, and he fought in secret.  He's big and square-shouldered and he wears a mask.  His hair is long and golden, and his voice is like a roar.

David's name is Watchfire, and it suits him.  He has eyes everywhere, and ears too.  He ferrets out secrets. He's stolen things but always given them where they're needed.  He's a good man, and that's a miracle in these days.

His name is whispered all over the east coast, and inland too.  They've heard of him here, and they know he's real.  He’s loved and he’s lost, and there are people who would swear to it.  They've touched his hand, they've heard his voice, they've felt his heat.

David tries to protect me, he does.  He yells at me and he tells me when I've done things wrong.  I’m afraid some day I’m going to have to save him.  I’m afraid some day he’s going to get himself killed. 

See if some day that happens, then a part of me will die too.

David is a lie, as much of a lie as Bly ever was.  I make up these people who were brave and real because in the end I was scared and alone.  I should have let them kill me rather than fight.

I shouldn't let them lie about David.  Because he isn't a troll or a sidhe, he isn't brave and he hasn't saved anyone.  People use him as a way to filter any good news.  If someone is saved, David saved them.  If someone is defeated, David did it.  It means we don't have to tell people what really happened.  Spies can stay spies.  Secrets can stay secrets.

All David really is is a way for me to speak.  If I'm angry at people and I'm angry at myself, if I think what's going on is wrong, I sign my letters as David.

I'm sure there are people who know about David - except some of my friends still think I am David, and some of them think he's real, and they think like him and they hate me for it.

David Watchfire was responsible for the fires in Boston.  David was the hero of the war, and little Caera Blythe was the sell-out.  She was the turncoat who cut the throats of commoners for her title.  That's how it has to be, because if they knew who I was, if they knew how dangerous I was and how I got out of my tower, they'd hang me from the nearest tree.

The names of the changelings that David murdered are listed somewhere in Boston.  People they hold him responsible for, when people inspired by his words burned down houses or blew up parks.  People he's rumored to have actually killed, bodies turning up on doorsteps or in ravines.  

The names of changeling's that I've killed are hardly held notable these days.  I tell people I'm a murderer and they hardly blink.  It was a war, after all, and I am on the side of the victors.  And I can hardly own them.  They weigh heavily on my heart.

I wish I was David.  I wish I wasn't small and weak and shy.  I wish I could speak like I write.

 _That's_  who I want to be.

I am getting too comfortable as Caera Blythe.  I am a hypocrite, exercising my power, playing at politics.  My mask is becoming my face.

I must always remember David.  I must be like him whenever I can.


	5. I named her Tiffany

Tiffany is a slippery thing --  and I honestly don't know that she's really just one thing.  I may have named all the shadows Tiffany.  They may answer with a chorus and not a voice.

When I was a little girl people did awfully cruel things to me.  One of the things they did, one of the ways they laughed at me, was they took this silly little girl who just wanted to be nice and kind and good and tell people they should all get along and be free and they made her a baroness.  They made her fight, and then they made her royal, and then they made her cry.

They wanted to make her untrustworthy, and it worked both ways.  They made it so no one would trust her, so that she looked like she had hurt her friends and sold them out.  That she had given up and been rewarded for it.

But it worked the other way, too.  That meanness dug down deep into her soul.  It worked down deep into my soul.  And I lie now, and I do what I must sometimes.  Things must be broken down for them to heal.

But while I was crying and alone, and thinking about going home to my father, my mother came to me.  At the very least, she sent a visitor, she sent this shadow of a woman, raw and black.   She was like a perfect night incarnate, dreams without any fears, when the stars are so clear they make you look past them and into some someday-perfect-future.  She had black eyes if you could see them, and rich skin and soft hair, and she was cut through with colors that were rich, indigo and carmine and vivid gold.

She was a chimera, and she came under cover of darkness, and she told me who I was.

There is a place where the land is under the water.  There is a place where the sky is even further down, deep below where a little girl could go, and if I grew up I'd be able to be there.

I think I'd been there before.  I wonder sometimes if I am the only Lady that Drowned Mountain has ever had.  Was I the seventeenth Lady?  Was it my mother?  Is that the same person?  Did she die and pass this legacy on to herself -- on to me, since I am her?

It doesn't matter, because Tiffany -- I named her Tiffany, that slippery black eel of a creature -- she promised she would walk me there.  I wasn't just some nameless, landless baroness.  I was the Lady of Drowned Mountain.

We had such adventures on the way, and it doesn't matter what they were. It only matters that I lived on the trods and the freeholds for all those years until I finally arrived, never changing, never aging, never healing.  All those wounds in Boston, all those burns from David, they stayed real and raw on my soul and they festered.

And I was half run through with madness when I finally got home, but I'd  _made it_.  And Tiffany slid in to her face -- to the statues that live under the sea with me.  And maybe she is the only one there, and maybe she is all of them, dozens of little slips of knowledge, but she is the one I ask questions to.

When I first came to Drowned Mountain, I had to swear an oath.  I took the sharp stone that I'd found on the seashore on the day of my chrysalis, and I cut my hand and I bled into the water.  I swore to keep and protect that space, and to be a fine lady.  I swore that if I ever got old enough, I would take up the mantle some day.  I would raise it up from the depths.  I swore I would do what my mother could not, or I would raise a daughter, an heir, to do it in the next generation.  (And I'll tell you what these things, are, I promise, when I tell you about my mother.)

And the shadows, the chimera, the very soul of the land, it swore right back, they or she or whatever there is buried in that place, they swore, that they would look after me, and protect me, and tell me all their secrets.

The secrets hide themselves so very well, though.  They've told me so many of them, over and over, but every time I speak them out loud, any time I've told anyone even the slightest hint, those hints flee from my mind, and I forget.  It's like the mists come over me all over again.

I think Tiffany might have come to me because of my mother.  I think she told me something about my mother once, and I don't really remember what it was.  I just have this feeling, this  _family_  feeling from everything around here.  I am supposed to protect it, and live for it, and live through it, and make sure it stays in the world.

That's who I'm supposed to be.


	6. The one I left behind

I knew Vic in Boston, and I'm sorry for everything I did to him.  I don't think he would blame me, but I think of him often and with great fondness.

Vic was a true believer.  Vic was  _the_  true believer.  As far as I know, Vic was one of three people in Boston who really knew, really realized that Watchfire was a little girl, forced to do terrible things.

Vic was the first one who recognized me.

Vic was a Nocker, a wonderful man, who saw a wee boggan walking home from school and stopped to say hello.  He recognized me from lives before, from ages and ages ago, and we talked about life back then and now, about freedom and liberty, 

Vic's the one who saw the bruises on my arm.  Vic's the one who saw the bars on my window when he walked me home.

Vic's the one I told, very quietly, about how desperately my father protected me.  About how he kept me in.

Vic's the one who showed me what I'd been doing wrong, about how I'd accidentally made my father so attached.

Vic's the one who rescued me.

Vic's the one who carried my messages.  Vic's the one who hid me when my father came looking for me.  Vic's the one who saved me and loved me without any reservation or magic involved.

Vic corrected my spelling.  Vic wrote my first pamphlet with me.  Vic gave me books that stirred my memory.

Vic's the one who made me a sword and shield when they forced me to fight.

Vic's the one who refused to talk when they asked about Watchfire.

Vic's the one they wouldn't talk about.

Vic's the one I left behind, not knowing if he was alive or dead, not knowing if he was well or ill, when I left Boston with Tiffany.

If I am David's mother, Vic is David's father.  I'm sure he doesn't know.  I'm sure he's dead.

But I wish he wasn't.  And I'd love to see him again some day.


	7. About my Mother

I have two secrets, a small one and a great one, and this is the great one.

My father, when he was a boy, lived in a tiny little nowhere town and he loved the sea.

He used to tell me, when I was young, that I would love the sea too.  He met my mother there, he told me, and he didn't know her for long.  She lived on the sea, she had a ship with her father.

He only met her three times.  The third time, she gave me to him.

He knew a lot about her though, and after I came back home from my chrysalis he told me about it.

What he said was that he wasn't my father, you see.  He was kinain, sworn to one of the oldest families of fae.  He met my mother first when he was a little boy, the first time he was allowed to take a boat out by himself.  He rowed out to the sandbar and there was another boat there, one with a young woman in it, too pretty for words.  And she said they were fated to meet, and that he would some day take care of her daughter.

Except it can't be true, because there were no sidhe around when I was born, not really, not like he describes.  My mother was no Scathatch.

And I'm not that old, not really.

So let me start over.

\--

My father lied to me a lot.  He was a good man and he only did it because he wanted me to feelgood and special and that I'd never been abandoned, but the fact of the matter is I was he lied, all the time.

They used to say things, sometimes, about how I looked very little like him, about how it didn't seem right that he was my father.

They used to whisper stories that he was insane, that he'd snatched me away from my family and moved me here.  Moved both of us here, so he wouldn't get caught.

That was why I would run away, from time to time.  I was trying to get home, they said.

I know my father's name was not his name.  He only kept my names because I insisted.

We did move a lot, when I was little.

But I was not stolen, I know that.  

I know it deep in my bones.

So the stories they told were nonsense.

So let me start over.

\--

Tiffany told me so many stories of Drowned Mountain, when I first came.  She said once upon a time, there were three kingdoms.

Everyone remembers Arcadia, and how it was brilliant and bright and beautiful.  It sat in verdant forests and the ground beneath it was fertile and beautiful.

Many remember Olympus, the great kingdom in the sky.  They walked as gods on the earth and they were cousins to Arcadia.  Perhaps they were prodigals.  Perhaps they were fae.  It goes back so far that it doesn't really matter anymore.

Fewer remember Atlantis.  Most believe it was the land of the merfolk, but that's not precisely right.  It used to be a bustling paradise.  We didn't used to fear technology.  Machines were not always so banal.

But then they cut loose the old ties.  The king abdicated, and insisted others do the same.  He gave the commoners freedom.  It was his wife, they said, who talked him into it, into moving with the tides and the times.  It was his wife, they said, who looked at the Magna Carta and decided the thirteenth century was a good time to surpass the mortals, to follow the arc of the universe.

And it was good, and most were ready, but many were not and that's why the city broke in two, that's why it sank.

Sometimes they say that Olympus is the past, and Arcadia the present, and Atlantis the future.  They say that Atlantis was too proud, and they tried to come back and be today when they were tomorrow.  And I am the daughter of the king and queen of Atlantis, born in the tumultuous future and sent to the gentle present to protect against the nostalgia that makes us want to return to the past.

Except that's just a story, and while stories are usually real in some way that doesn't explain a lot, and it's only real the way that  magic is real, beautiful and half-asleep and dying.

So let me start over.

\--

I used to think a great deal about my past, and I would sleep under the water, hoping the waves would tell me something.  I wanted to know what was real and true, so I went there every day.

Once I came and I heard voices, but it was only Tiffany singing me to sleep.   _down go the layers, down and down and down_.

Once I came and I found a letter from my father, who had only been there once but left it for me when I was but a baby.  It was loving and kind and more of what I remembered him to be, and less of what he really was.

Once I found paintings, a man and a woman who looked like me.  I made up stories about them, and I called them David and Ruth, and I thought sometimes they talked to me.

And then.

then there was once  
one night when

perhaps i was sleeping  
under the water it is hard to tell  
and the stone slipped from my fighters

there was a light the shadows fled from  
a shape stepped out from it  
mother came to me

blood is blood she said  
blood is blood  
and whats done is done  
and it is a burden  
but you must bear it  
i could not come to you if you were not my beloved daughter  
i must tell you my secrets before i am done

your father lives  
he will say someone stole you  
no one stole you –  _she says_  
you were slipped away

under night  
under threat  
because we gave them freedom  
and we were hated for it

you have a destiny  
no longer sunshine  
or love  
or sweetness

you are what you are  
and you must not fight it  
you are our child  
you will stain your hands  
but the world will be better for it

you must not mourn me –  _she says_  
this is my last day and night  
i gave up this coil  
so i could come to you

your father lives –  _she says_

he will live to see your fate  
he will know and he will come to see when you have begun  
he will come to see your works  
he fortold it when he saw you first  
he marked you as his own

he tried to kill you  
but not for them  
not for himself  
he was not angry  
it was for you  
he could not bear to see you suffer  
you will bring them freedom  
and they will hate you for it  
you must not be afraid  
you will suffer for it

here are the memories –  _she promises_  
of a world under the ocean  
of a city free and true  
each to their talent  
but none maligned for the lack

here is the city we created  
here is the place that is mighty because of us  
here is where you began  
see the cold white  
it is false  
the colors have only faded  
you will learn to see them in time

you were given this soul  
this form  
to hide  
to make good what you can be  
to make right what you are not

 

you were made a builder  
because half of building new  
is deciding what to keep  
and what to destroy

 

you were made a healer  
half of healing is debriding the wound  
excising the dead  
so the living has a place stretch and grow

 

your father lives –  _she says_  
and he fears you  
so i must make you strong

here are memories of being loved  
of the warmth of sunshine  
so much more dear below the water  
of your mothers hand  
of her shoulder  
of your father’s touch  
gentle first  
of the pressure of his grip  
so you remember

here are memories  
of the ships we use  
the ghosts of sailors at the helm  
joy as they sink  
your mother is something you must never tell  
 _a breath – and then_  
you must never let them know  
that the mortal is not your father

 

your father lives – she says  
you are the blood of royalty  
born to reject it  
and to embrace it  
to remember service is the duty of the mighty  
to remember humility is a requirement of greatness  
your life will be hard  
you must not complain  
for each coin that passes through your blood  
five more will tumble from your fingers  
payment to others  
payment for their misery  
they will think that you gave the sorrow too  
do  not correct them

 

your father lives –  _she warns_  
and he will come to you  
and you will know him  
but he will not admit it  
and you must never say  
he will not speak your name  
until he is ready  
until he has judged you  
until he is prepared to raise you up  
or kill you

you must be prepared for both  
this is what you must never tell:  
your mother was born of dreams and singing  
she is a siren, a banshee,  _a bean sidhe_

how they survived  
they do not say

but here are memories  
remember the songs you can not sing  
love them  
respect them  
they will be your salvation some day

 

remember them, these women  
older than old  
each one born was meant for something  
one purpose, one destiny  
one emotion, one perfection  
they remember best the one  
the harbinger of death  
but they were each unique

your mothers voice was always  
mutiny and rebellion  
it is why your father came to her  
it is why the sailors love her so  
it is why you inherited battle and blood  
and she is sorry, and she knows you are angry  
and that is how she knows you are her daughter

and that is why you fight

but here is the greatest secret –  _she says_

you will say i am a secret  
over and over you must profess it  
you must never speak of it lest you forget  
but you must remind them of these depths  
so they will not look deeper

they will assume you are of arcadia  
they will see your arcadian blood  
the bean sidhe makes it so  
but they do not remember the older kingdoms  
they do not remember atlantis  
they only think olympus is a dream

your father threw lightning  
he came from the sky  
he chose the sea  
they called him  
jupiter  
saturn  
zeus  
posidon  
thor  
odin

wrong, each one

he is none of these  
and all  
their dreams owe him much  
and he owes their stories greatly

there are kingdoms older than earth  
prodigals more than our equals

gods and worse  
fallible  
terrible  
noble  
selfish  
and each with a gift for earth

one came and called himself prometheus  
he gave them fire  
one came and called herself athena  
she gave them laws

they have names we do not know  
you must remember them  
you will be alone  
the stories are old

your father lives – she says  
he is called  
david  
he is called  
shatters the earth  
he is called  
coriolanus  
he is called  
the storm  
he is called

he is

he

calls

\--

y͎̮̤ͣ̽ͬ̊͋̂͞o͜u̡̻̹̩rͦ́ͥ̀͌͛͆҉̯̳  ͧ͢f͚̳̪̣ͮ̃ͨ̀͛̾͗atherl̹̺̜͂ͦ̃̊͋̆̚ͅiͤ̆̚͏͕͇̣̬͚v̓̅̚e͉͉͕̯̎͝s͙̘̫ͨ̌̀̓͛̀ͪ  
̝͕̬̯͍̪̭ͮͧ̔͒̏ͭ̀  
̯̮̩  
̨͎̬͉̗͉ͯ̾ͥ̍  
̬̬h͇ͧͅẽ̬̼̹̼̲̖ͩ ̠̠̬̱ͧ͊͆ͭ̚i̢ͬ̌̋͋̌ͫͅs̹̲͞ ̙̼̭̻͖͈͈̅͑ͤ̀c̱͎̩̩̻̗͕ͯͤ͆̌a̫͘ḽ̮̦̟͚̱̀ḽ̑͊̈́ͪe̮ͪ̂̏̍̋͠d̦̻̜̠̩̱̰͐̀̾  
̫̐̊͛͋̀  
͙̪̑̄ͯͤ̚  
͕̜͌͡h̲̆͋̌͘ḛ̳̘̮͈̐̄̉̆̈́̒ ̲͒͂̊̏̚i̙͈ͦ̓̐ͤ͗͑̚̕ͅṣ̛̪́ͨ̐ͥ̾ ̦ͪ̈́c̳̰ͧ̏̓ͣ́̇ǎͭ̾ͯl̰̬͑ͅl̗ͤ̇̊͜ẹ̩̮̘̫̆̾̀ͧ̃̈́̚ͅd̙̠̳̻̾ͩ̄ͣ  
͛h̴̥̺̼̫̓͑ͩ͋̒ͬȩ͈̖̥̫̣̲͎ͥ ͌͊́ͥ̐ͯ͏̯͕͈̳͔ī͚̣̻͉s͕̗̒ ̲̯̙̦̆͋͐c̹̼͍̬̥̙̞̅ͥ͂a̷̰̟͙l̷͓͇̹̹̼͚ͩl͚̜̬ͫ̽ͅe̴̫̻̔̃́̿͋d̑ͩͬ͆̔̉  
̼̦̮̤̻  
̽ͨͦ͟y̸͊ͦ͌̔̍ȍ̵͓̱̫̍ͩͯ̓̄ͣu̟̝͖̦̼͒ͭ̋̓ṛ͉́ ̧̺̪͔̥̝̱̎́͐̄f̥͎̜͈̙ͪ͛ͧͅa̶͑ţ̝̇ͪ͌h͔͙̏̿̅ͧ̍́e͚̜̰̣̱͐ͭr͇̼̥̈́͞ ͔̯̬̥̻͉l̯͇̹̯̫͙̹͑͋ī̪̙̼̰̤̗v̬͎̪̀e͙̦̣̙s̞

ȟ̭͍̫͍ͪ͐̋͛͑ͨ͑ͅȅ͉͈͕̲͇̖̠ͤͮ̀̾ͧ ̵̭̓̋l̝̣͕͎̪͗̎̉̔͌ͥ́ͣȋ̶̖̱̃͐̍̈͌̐͘ṽ̧̖̘ͮͅe̶̠͎̦͔̤̯̔ͫͮ̏͗ͣͪ̄̀͝s̛͖̖̾͋̏̚̕ ̗̱̘̞̥̦͓̾͢h̎̑̾͏̗̟̪͈ͅe̴̴̦͕̝̟̰̲̅͋̉ ͤ̀͑̃̋ͥ́̎ͧ͟҉̖̙͕ͅl̆̇̄ͪ̒̿͊̚͏͓̰͍̲̗i̴̞͔̦ͭ͑͂ͪͅv͎͈͌ͬ͋̿̿͝e̴̝̦͉̪̩͛ͣ͟͝s̡͙̻̟̭͕̫͉̀̾̄̓́ͪ̓ ̸̵͕̝̫͍̖̲̩͑̿̾́̀ý̨͖̱̈ͦͦͨ̉̌͟o̪̤̦̞͍͙̬̬ͥ̇͌ͭ͡u̶̮̜̜̤͍̰̺̰̤ͤ̆͋͗̍r̩̝͗̍ͯ͗̎̊͑ͭ́͢ ͚̩̤͗ͦ̈́̾͊̂ͮͫ́͟͞͞f̝̭͓̣̄̉́a̧̪͉̐͊͛̋ͬ̈̀t̨͍̳͚͙̩̿̆̀̓̃ͤ̂̉̀h̬̬̱̙͎̏̆ͨ̒͘e̥̮͔͔͔̪̠̲̾̈́̇͟r͙͔̼̹̥̱̭̓̀͊̍̔̃ͨ̾ͨ ̷̵̗͕͎͓̿ͬͬ̏̍̃̊ͅl̫̫̗̦̪̓͆͒̂́i̢ͬͦ̃͏͉͎̣͎̝͇̩ṿ͇͍͉̈͐̓̋̌͟ͅe̸̖̬͓͇͗͊͐ͥ̉͟ͅs̡̟̥̙͍͕̹͖̝̠̽ͭ̑͑̈̇͌̎́͝ ̴̘̣̬͍̙̩͑̃̈́ͨ͗̚h̸̨̹̣͂̒̿͟èͦͤͥ̈̊̀͛̓͏̤̲̳̠̻̩ͅ ̢̭͉̼͖͙͉͌̋̓̈́̉̅ͅi̴͍̗̥̞̫͊̆͒͂́͗̃̍͠͝s̼̺̗̥̠͍͇̿̈́̽ ̞̥̩͙̐̂͒c̷̬͍͌͑̽ͤ͋̍͡͞a̝͖̤͉̹͓̓̽ͅl̡͕̜̩̲̈́͗̐̃l̰͇̝̉͂́ͣ̂̾͝ȩ͓͖͓̣͚̩̫ͭͨ̈́ͦ͆͑͆̚ͅd̸͙̲̜̯̳̗͎̮͛̅̐ͪ͗̅̾̿ ̩̙͇̤̪͓̪͈ͧͬͨͫͧ̽d̨̟̳͓͉͈̩̥̚ǎ̢̤̦͎̬͋ͫ̒ͯ͆ͧ̚ṽ̶̗̜̻ͪͣ͆̉͊̚͞į͚̝̄ͯ̇̊ͯ̂ď̵͚̼̻ͨͯ͌͑͜ͅ ̶̰̙͚̽̾ͩͦͬ͋̃͘͡h̶̡͉̰̰̝̲͉̭͋̑̈́͝e̠͙͙̼͈̬̬͈͒̔͌̍͟ ͈̠̗͍͚̙͓̫̾i̯͕͎̼̼͚͆̀̿̈́ͤ̀̂ͬ͜͡͠s͕̦̀̉̄̕͜ ̡̺̪̦̲̀̔̏̊́̎͐̔́ç̭̝̺̮͈̥̤͔ͦ̍ͭ̈̄a̵̬͉͖̭ͭ̍̄̓̑́́͠l̴̟̭̥͋͛̚ḷ͚͍̺̫̱ͨ͂͑́é͖̠̯̞͙̥͔͔̑͑̾̕ͅd̷̛̖͚̹̼̘̣̦̩̪ͧͤ͊ ̗̟͖̊̇͒̀̋ͥ͢͞l̛͖͈̆ͫ́ͣͣ͊ͥ͟͝ȍ̶̷̸͎̞͎̜̲͊ͥ̇ͦͣk̘̖̙͗̓͌ͯ͛̓ͭ͂i̢̳̇ͭͬ̓ ̷̨̠̥̐̄̏̈́h̙͙͔͙̃̐̔̅͑͒̚͟ẹ̫̗̬̯͆̿̂͋́͞ ̙͚̱̈͊̀̒́̄̒i̪͓̭͇̗̾̀͢͞s̵͈̘̃ͩ̽̚͡ ̰̩͇̭̦̜ͮ̑̅̐͗̆ͥ̆͞c̵͕̺ͦ̒͘á̸̶̼̫͔̥̗̪̩̂̓͆͌͡l̡̡͓͖̘ͩͨḷ̼̗̭̼͍͌͗͜ͅȩ͚̮̝̻̺̲͇̟ͣ̎́ͧ̚͘͝d̡̖͖̳̯͈͙͔̮̻ͥ̿͛͒ͥ̑͝  
͔͇̩̱̰̥̻͗̒ͬ̋͌ͪ̍̊͡h̙̗̼͙̥̬̅͐ͦ̚͜ë̞̳͎͕̹̖͓͛̋̌̏͝ ̴͖͎̇͌̐̈͊̚ͅi̧̞͓͎̲̋s̢͓̦͓̘̮͇̿̋̂͛ ̷͉̱̦̟̯̦͙͕̲͂̀̃̂̓̉ͧͨc̵̡͉͇̹̺̼͕̙̮ͭ̂̒ͮ̿̒̔͌ả͇̼̣̫̗͠͞l̻̗̯̻͓̲̫ͣ͐̂͗̈́̚͢l̗̺͈̪̳̬̪̱ͦ̓̓̾̊͒̿ę̬̼͓̳͕̦̲͉͉̾̐ͨd̡͍̦̹̻̰̫̻̄͌ͦ͆ͬͅ ͓͍͙͆ͯ́ͫͬ̑̑͟h͚͇̗̺͎̝̐͑͆ͮ͂î̦̤̏̊s̷̷̘̺̹͚͓̦̰̱ͤ̇̈̎̾̌͢ ͙͎̙ͭ̃̈ͤ̔̐̂̀͢ͅn͔̘͚̠̪̩̞ͭ̎ͨ̂ͭ͜ạ̷̩̳͇̗̝̹ͣ̓͑ͮ̍̇m̮̖͑̅̃ͥ̄͡ȇ̥͓̭̔ͦ̀ ̴̘̰̂i̶̠̦̙ͪ̽̃͢š̨͗ͣ̃ͥ͐̾̔͏̭̬ ̴͉̌ͥ̑̋̃͢͜ḩ̷̛̠̥͚̏̓̈́ͩ͛͂͆̚e͖̺͕̟͉̬̖̊͊ͩ̉͑ͨͪ͡ ̧͖̹͒ͣ̋͂̌̅ͥ͢͠w͔̦̙̘͎͆ͤͤͭ̅̕ï̥͎̼̠̜͎̯̫̅͋ͩͥ̀̅̉̀͜l̬͔̼̻̟ͥͭ̅̋̍͒͛͛͞l̫̩̱̲̗̳ͧ̓͐ͪ̑ͧ͆̀̕ ̵̵̡̹̗̞͋̔̄̈ͭ͗̓͌̚c̣͖̮̖̰̩ͫ̽̐͊͂ͮ͑͌͜͞ḁ̶̲̫̤ͧ̇ḻ̥̖̺̱̦̞̋̑̈̽l̶̦̤̣̳̖͕̻͈͆̌ͮ̏̕ ̵̻̟̺̼̞͈̼̦̎̏͛ỷ̷̳̱͕̰͈̗̌ợ̵͎̫̲̱̝̻̬̌̊ͮ͊̿̾͑ú̡̲͚̣̙̦̽ͮ̿ ̸̠̙̏ͦ̾͌hͤ̍̈ͪ̑ͅe̴̱͈̯͕ͧ̆͜ ͉͙̖ͭ̓͘w̠͓̖̆ͥ̽ͅį͔̲͛ͥ͢l̡̻̼͖̖̍̄̐l̸͙̰̜̦͉̜͇̖̍ͬ ͛̅́ͬ҉̝̬̠̘͍̣̦ǹ̄ͤ̓͏̰̞̼͉͎o̸̱͉̓͛͊͗͐t̗̪̯̯̼̆̌̋͆ͨ̉̂ ̢̲͇̜̞̬͛͂͂ș̡ͦ̀͒̒̑̊͢ē͒͋ͨ̅̇͏̘̲̹̟͍̪̲̻e͇̻̙̿ͤͧ̓̃̂͆ͬ͌͡͝ ̷͔͚͚̟͑͠y̶̸̩̫͇̙͐͛̑ͯ̄̀̕ơ̵̧͚̜̤̫̗̽ͪu̬̇̋̏͊͑̈́ ̪̪͇̮̦̻̯͖ͯ̅̅ͮͩ̉̄̌̕͠  
̷̱͈̹͖̠͚̞̇̀̏ͥ̍ṭ̴͌̎͒̇h͙̮̤̺͔̹̮̺̊͊͠ǐ̫̩ͩ̆̔̋ͣ͋̽̇s̸̺̞͔̭̫̉́͘ ̵̛̘̯͙̒͊̚͘i̜̜̫̹̥̯̤̘̒͜s͓̺̪̺̬̱̅̾͛̏̾ͦ͌̈́͠ ̡̱̮̜͙͙̣̝͒̃̏̈̃̊a̛̲̗̤͍͒̄̈́́ͬͭ͞͞ ̗͈̹̯̮͉͖̑ͯ̔̔̐̽̾͂ͣ͘m̟̼ͩͫͫͦ̐̈́̇̕͜͝e͇̹͇̩̘̟̎ͩ̂̃̓m̢̜ͧ̈ͮ͛͌͠ͅǫ̬͉̟̗̜͖̞̦̼͒͢r̫̝͈͖̫̣̮̘̿̆̂̉̋̄ͬ̽̕͠y̡̛͍̤̱̺͒ͥ̋ͧ͗͋̇͌͞ ̴͖̗̦̬̝̬̿͋̿ṙ͎̪̐ͬ̔̉ͪ̔ͫ͘͟e̬͕̗̣͚̫̹͗ͯ̈̅̊͠m̙̮̭͈̗̗̜ͩ̔ĕ͍͔̜̣͈́m̵̴̼̱̲͈̼̝ͬ̂ͤ̊ͪb͉̠̬̖̣̱͇̟̫ͫͨ͗ͯ̆ͪ̽̂͘eͥ͂̐͑͛̎͏̖͚̝̰̩̼͎̹ͅŗ͓͙͉̯̲̓ͦ͆̆ͩ̄ͯ͒͆͝ ̝̭͙̒ͮ̽̋̉͢t͙̻̞̏́̽ͭ͑h̸̸͔̮̗͖͓̘̣̩̾̽̕ḁ̷̟̺̟̤̰̪̮̉ͧͭͫͭ̔̚t̮̖̥͚͉̩̘̙̅̆͊ͩ̂͒̀  
͐̾ͪ̇̋̽͆͆͒͏̢͖̥͎̠͎̠̯ḩ̩̟̭̭͔͚̼̤̆̽̊ͨ̚͟i̮͙̝͈ͥ̄ͪ́́̚͞s̢͖͉͚̑ͭ̒̓͟ ̣͓ͩ̄ͥ̿͝n̵̛̻͚͎̤ͪ͆ͫͨ͑ͮͫͨa̅͏̤̟̳̣̪̲̝̰ͅm͎͚̪̗̒ͯͨe̱̞̺̠̼ͪ̍̀͡ ̷̨̬̜͙̾̋͡į͖͇̭̱ͯ̑s̟̠̮ͭͩͥ̓̂͛ͮ͂͝

your father lives

and you must never speak of him

 

he knows you are made of rebellion

he will forgive you

 

your father lives  
your father loves you  
your father will know you  
and you will know him

here are memories  
how to speak  
how to fight  
old languages  
older arts  
the magic of intention  
and of emotion

here are memories of how to live  
with patience  
in war  
we took love from you  
 _so many years ago  
_ we took age from you  
 _though you blame yourself  
_ we took family from you  
 _so you could breathe_

your life is not your own

i am your family –  _she says_  
i am your love  
i am your future

if you do this  
if you succeed  
it is over  
you will be forgiven  
your oaths forgiven  
you will be released  
your clock will start again  
you will become me  
you will become your pas

you will find your soul  
you will give him a son and two daughters

there is a reward for you – she says  
but you must press on  
and you must succeed

do not take shelter  
do not hide from the oncoming storm  
hide your face but stand in the wind

cover your eyes  
but look beneath your fingers

 

you must walk a delicate line, my love

 

she touched my face

and i felt cold

and i woke up

 

But perhaps that was a dream.

Perhaps it is wishful thinking – but I know I can not help but feel this blood still in my veins

So which am I?

Am I a child of the ocean, raised by my father?

Am I a queen of Atlantis, cousin to the Empires that yet survive?

Am I the spirit of rebellion, the ancient child of an ancient race?

Am I simply a child, a helper spirit, born of delusions and madness?

Is my legacy songs or schizophrenias?

I do not know.  I believe in my mother.  I believe in the might of the commoner. I believe I must work to give them freedom.

I believe I must stain my hands to do it, and that they will not forgive me.

But if I succeed.  If that.   _If_.  If now is the time, and this trip is not the last, if there is to never be an eighteenth baroness of the Drowned Mountain – if I am the end of the line at last – if I can win,  if I can give them freedom, I will be rewarded.

And then I can be patient.  Then Corvyn and I can grow up together.  Then perhaps he will be my William.  Or perhaps I will  _find_  my William.

But at last I will grow up.  I will have a love, a husband, a family.  Children.

And my two daughters, my son, I will teach them that life does not have to be hard.  If you are not destined to stand alone, then you can grasp on to family.

If I have not killed her, I can thank Ariana.  I will not be her daughter, but I could be her friend.  I could find Vic.  I could thank him properly.  I could draw Tiffany out of the shadows. I could speak my truths without having them wiped from my mind.

But I must not speculate.  I must not complain.

I believe in all these stories, that all of it is true.  I have lived a thousand, thousand times after all.  What’s three more?  

And they all point me in one direction.

I must give them freedom.  And I shall.

\--

my head hurts and I need to go lie down now, but this is what I know. all of these may be true or none of them, and some of them I remember but a mind plays tricks on a girl, and my father was a liar, and maybe so am i.  

my mother never told me anything but what she wanted me to believe. tiffany only told me what she was given.  my father lied but he also loved me.  my father lives.  or is not my father

but there is a castle under the water, and i own it and it is my home, and that's all I really care about, except that some day I would like to know who my mother and my father are.  

except when people don't know who you are, you're safer.  they can't attack what you love if they don't know what it is.  

so if I have to have a history, i want it to be multiple choice

and if I make choices, i want them to be my own


End file.
